This might be the last thing I ever write. They're not far, I can hear the commotion out in the street, the trucks are here. Tailgates dropping, shouted orders. Who will read this? The man who's come to kill us, that's who. Or, maybe he won't even bother. Such a...

When he draws he uses small, repetitive strokes, first outlining the object and then, with even smaller strokes, he fills in the details. At some point he has it, or almost. He often manages to sketch a decent approximation of the object. Decent, that is, for somebody with no real...

If he'd paid any attention to his breathing he would have noticed it had become irregular and almost heavy. Though he was doing nothing more strenuous than sitting in front of a glowing monitor, on his own, in a dark and quiet third-floor apartment that once housed a large family...